


Echoes

by Amsare



Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: Angst, Hearing Voices, Introspection, M/M, Sad Ending, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 11:12:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8487142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amsare/pseuds/Amsare
Summary: Strange how your life can change from one day to another: pulling a trigger can make a huge difference.
  
  (...)
  
  It seemed like watching a movie, scene after scene, without any chance to stop it. The end will never change.





	

Three days after the heist gone wrong, Freddy Newandyke woke up in a hospital room, alone. As he opened his eyes, he felt something strange inside his head, like an  _itch_  he needed to scratch away. When he described the feeling to the doctor, all that he said was not to worry as after all the injuries he had sustained, he was still recovering. Yes, he had been shot twice in the gut, lost so much blood that he could have died just from it and then nearly got shot in the head: it was a miracle he wasn’t dead. His colleagues had burst into the warehouse right in time, killing _Larry_ before he could pull the trigger first. “Ah!” Freddy groaned, feeling a sharp stabbing pain right into his skull: only thinking about Mr. White was painful, so it seemed.  
   
Holdaway was one of the first colleague from the office to come and see him, saying how much they were proud of him. He talked about Officer Marvin Nash too, as he wanted to know what had happened in that warehouse once for all. “When you're ready Newandyke.”  
   
   
_Yeah, when I'm ready._  
   
   
In that moment, he heard somebody else talking except there was nobody else in that room. No nurses nor doctors – just Holdaway and Freddy himself. The voice had whispered to his ear, as if he was telling him a secret. _“You are gonna be okay, kid.”_  
   
   
_Larry?_  
   
   
“Newandyke? Are you listening to me?”  
   
Freddy had been staring at the wall behind his friend. He blinked a couple of times before focusing on Holdaway again, who was clearly uncomfortable. "I... I thought somebody was talking to me,” Freddy murmured.  
   
“Yeah, I'm talking to you," Holdaway replied, standing up from the metallic chair he was sitting in. He put both hands in his pockets, “you need something? Nurse?”  
   
“No, no, no... I'm just...” Freddy's answered in a hoarse voice; he cleared his throat and sighed. “Sorry.”  
   
Holdaway clicked his tongue, "I'll leave you to rest, you're still shaken up. Take care, Newandyke."  
   
Freddy looked at him going out of the room; he tried to make a smile but his jaw hurt.  
   
He wondered why he had heard Larry talking. Maybe his brain was really fucked up.  
   
Looking at the grey ceiling of his room, he wondered if he could ever be the same person again. Strange how your life can change from one day to another: pulling a trigger can make a huge difference.  
  
   
***  
  
   
Weeks passed, months passed: he was finally at home, the worst part is over they say. Relax, go outside, don’t think about it, what done is done. Easy to say.  
   
Every night Freddy started having dreams about the same events as if he was in a sort of time loop. He dreamt about the day he met the Cabots at the club for the first time, where he met Larry: the adrenaline flew through Freddy’s his veins as he told them the commode story, feeling like a fucking star ‘cause they believed him… And Larry,  _oh_ , he looked so happy and alive, so proud of him even if they didn't even know each other.  
   
Then he used to dream about all those days spent in Larry's car, parked outside Katrina's jewelry: there was a strange familiarity between them, a sort of  _connection_ , which seemed to grow every day more. Their laughs echoed in the dream – they were at peace.  
   
But then the story had to go on.  
   
He dreamt of the heist: the smell of blood in his nostrils and the metallic taste of death, the sound of the alarm, bodies falling on the jewelry's floor, the rush of the escape, the car crash and Mr. Brown dying in front of him.  
   
   
_Wake up, Freddy, come on, you don’t want this._  
   
   
It seemed like watching a movie, scene after scene, without any chance to stop it. The end will never change.  
   
He felt the pain in his gut as the woman shot him and he shot her back dead. Freddy had always been good with guns.  _I killed her, I killed her, I killed an innocent woman._  Was he so different from the Cabots then? From Larry?  
   
   
_Make it stop._  
   
   
He dreamt about Larry holding him as he was lying down in his blood, bleeding to death. The shirt wasn’t white anymore, drenched in red.  
   
   
_Please wake up._  
   
   
“I'm a cop. I'm sorry. I’m so sorry.”  
   
And then, the confession, broken words washing away the sins from his soul; the cold barrel of a gun on his skin, Larry's hand caressing him on his cheek as to say  _everything’s okay, kid, everything will be over soon..._  
   
   
_Wake up!_  
   
   
Freddy opened his eyes, heart racing in his chest, guts hurting and head in pain; he's crying.  
   
   
“I'm sorry,” he sobs in the dark.  
   
   
Somewhere in his mind, that voice echoed once again, “ _I'm sorry too, kid.”_


End file.
